


Dear Santa

by d__T



Series: The Hardest Part is Letting Go of Your Dreams [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Depression, Drug Use, Suicidal Ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-24 02:25:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4901965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d__T/pseuds/d__T
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Indigo's in college, and he done fucked his life up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dear Santa

He’s lying on the couch in his friend’s apartment, staring at the ceiling through the smoke haze. He doesn’t live in the apartment, not on the lease, just lives on the couch these days. The only thing he can really feel anymore is the cold and snow swirling in from the cracked open door, soaking into the depths of his bones, taking up residence there, moving in for the long term. Without looking, he takes a drag off the hookah perched on the filthy coffee table, the burble of smoke through water the only sound in the dead quiet apartment.

Christmas is next week, or maybe tomorrow and he’s so lost it doesn’t matter anymore. A memory surfaces, bright from when he was little and as yet untarnished by depression, of his mom helping him write a letter to santa, a wishlist. He laughs at the memory, a grim parody of joy, smoke boiling from between his teeth.

“Dear Santa. I’ve been a good little boy this year. Didn’t get arrested for any of that shit, haven’t failed all my classes yet-” He pauses his mumble to wipe his nose on the filthy flannel he’s wearing, to take another hit off the hookah. Smoke curls from his mouth and nose “-Nobody died this semester that I had anything to do with, got probie on the team. Again. Look, I’m doing good.” The dying parody of a laugh comes forth a second time.

“Look, I’m doing good.” He insists, almost to himself. Doing good just like his car, out of gas, worn down tires and cut out exhaust not gonna pass the next inspection.

“Look, Santa. I’m not asking for much here. Gimme a $20 so I can buy these fucks some beer and use the change to fill my baby up. Make one last run over the bridge of unlimited speed. Promise I won’t take anyone else out when I go over the high side. Promise.”

He sighs, a huff of warm against the cold air, and takes another hit. Suddenly, the door slams open, bouncing off its stop and startling him. His friend is back, slams the door shut against the brick that keeps the door open just the right amount to keep the smoke detector from getting upset about the constant haze in the apartment. He announces, loudly and generally to the apartment. “Guess what I found guys!? WE’RE EATING TONIGHT.”

He’s got a $20 clutched in his chilled blue fingers.


End file.
